


To Love a Linguist

by bluetears07



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Arsenal FC, Language Kink, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lukas transferred to Arsenal he was told they’d arrange for English language lessons. He never imagined his tutor would be so intriguing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bastiansbabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastiansbabe/gifts).



> Bastiansbabe prompted me with 'student/teacher' and this is the result.

Lukas never even wanted to attend the English language course in the first place. He knew it was standard fare for foreigners joining clubs abroad, but he had always hated being cooped up in a stuffy classroom. From a young age he knew it was not the way he learned best, especially when it came to languages. Despite the ridicule and nasty jokes about his accent and questionable fluency in German, Lukas preferred immersion. He liked doing things, talking to people, figuring out the idiosyncrasies of the grammar as he went along rather than within the confines of a formal education. But, after his agent’s repeated pestering, and a dash of guilt, he agreed to sit through the first class.

Which is how he now finds himself wandering through the labyrinth of halls inside Arsenal’s training facility on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in August. After a fruitless quarter of an hour, just when Lukas begins to consider turning back, he stumbles across a conference room. A crisp, white sheet of A4 with ‘English Tutoring’ printed in a bold, black font hangs from the center of the closed door. Before barging in, he quickly double-checks the email he had pulled up on his phone. A minute to spare.Inside he finds one of the other summer signings, Santi Cazorla, quietly sitting opposite their new tutor while he scribbles in a notebook. Both men glance up as soon as they hear the door open. Santi grins brightly, while the stranger looks startled, eyes wide as he rises to his feet.

“You must be Lukas. Welcome,” he greets Lukas, offering a hand and a tight-lipped smile. It is just enough to seem approachable but still reserved, very British—or so he has been told. The solemn demeanour radiating from the man unnerves Lukas, forcing him to overcompensate by being more jovial than usual. He has never gotten on well with the wallflower types; always feeling compelled to draw them out. With a brief nod and a wide, disarming grin, Lukas shakes his hand. “Please.” The tutor motions to an empty chair at the round table beside Santi.

“Okay. Thanks.” He settles into the seat, greeting his teammate with a friendly nudge. Santi chuckles and murmurs something about ‘back to school’ that has Lukas stifling his laughter as he pulls out a notepad and pen. He tucks his drawstring backpack under his chair.

“We will start in a few minutes, once Olivier arrives,” the tutor says, careful to enunciate each syllable clearly. Lukas concentrates on the new words; clinging to those he knows in order to piece together the meaning. Instead, he finds himself distracted by the man’s voice, a soft but clear timbre that reflects his earnest face.

The more he speaks, the more Lukas notices an odd accent seeping through. Not quite German, not quite Polish and with a dash of London undercutting his English pronunciation. A strange, thought not entirely unpleasant, hodgepodge of intonations that comes across as rather endearing. It catches Lukas off guard. He was expecting a British national, probably a London native rather than someone from the Continent. Looking closer, Lukas attempts to image their instructor’s native tongue. Several different candidates all seem plausible. The instructor does not have a particular look; he could easily blend in with most European nations, sharp features, intense, deep set eyes, long but wiry limbs. Handsome enough, perhaps a bit pale but it seems to suit his apparent phlegmatic nature. As he turns to write on the whiteboard, Lukas watches the way his black button-down pulls over the muscles of his back, strong shoulders, lean arms, and a tapered waist. Given his physique, if Lukas did not know any better, he figures the man might have once been a football player, or, at the very least, athletic in some capacity.

Lukas shifts uncomfortably in his seat, legs falling open a little further. His knee gently bumps against one of the table legs.

It is only when Olivier shows up a couple minutes later that Lukas realises he is openly staring at the quiet man. Leaning back in his chair, Lukas tries to nonchalantly disengage, dragging his gaze away from the curve of their tutor’s jaw to examine the new arrival claiming the open spot beside him. No one seems to notice. He flashes a smile at Olivier and receives one in turn.

“Afternoon,” their tutor clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before clasping his hands behind his back. “I am Miroslav Klose.” He gestures to the looping letters scrawled on the whiteboard behind him. The name, while eliminating a few countries, really does nothing to help Lukas narrow down his nationality. Lukas starts chewing on the end of his pen. “You may call me Miro, if you like.” A smiles streaks across his face, an awkward stretch of thin lips but far more genuine than earlier. Lukas sits up a bit straighter, listening intently as he attempts to decipher the jumble of familiar and unfamiliar words. “I will be your English tutor for the next couple months. I also teach German at a secondary school in Islington. I speak German, Polish, French, basic Italian and I’ve been brushing up on my rather poor Spanish skills,” he gives Santi an apologetic look.

A startling rush of euphoria spreads through Lukas the moment Miroslav mentions both German and Polish. He stops gnawing on the pen, holding it between his teeth as the information sinks in. It is not that uncommon, but so far from home it triggers something like the tenuous beginnings of a cultural lifeline. Even if they turn out to not be Miroslav’s primary languages, Lukas gathers that they must have more in common than he could have ever anticipated.

They begin the tutorial with a few conversational basics Miroslav figures they already know due to the prevalence of English in media throughout Europe. He corrects a few grammatical errors and pronunciation mistakes before deciding to quickly cover the English alphabet and the various phonemes associated with each letter. Lukas finds he has a much easier time than either Santi or Olivier. A small part of him, the same corner of his psyche that hungers for goals and titles, revels in the praise Miroslav gives him so freely when they do a final review. He brushes the childish sentiment aside; instead reminding himself how much time he is wasting with the class. Despite Miroslav’s effort to keep his tone light and conversational, Lukas cannot ignore the feeling that he is back in kindergarten.

Miroslav rounds out the first lesson with a bevy of football specific terms they will need to know for practice, as well as matches. Each player stares forlornly at the long list Miroslav distributes, each with the appropriate translation according to their native language. He smiles again when he sees their reactions, even allows a breathy laugh to slip past, as he promises to review them all first thing during the next class. Lukas highlights a few key words and phrases, pleased when Miroslav confirms the cognates to be true. It only serves to reinforce his preconceptions about the unnecessary class. Before dismissing his pupils, Miroslav spends a few minutes covering several of the most common insults they might encounter on the pitch while playing in the Premiership.

“Though I’m sure you all have your own creative ways of answering insults.” He adds with a flat expression. Lukas catches the glint of wry wit sparking in his eyes as the man licks his lips to halt the progress of a budding grin. The corner of his mouth begins to quiver, as if it desperately wants to break out into a broad, laughing smirk but cannot. The strange tick puzzles Lukas to no end. The joke, though, even in English, and as dry as it is, does elicit a smile from Lukas while the other two merely nod along.

Before they leave, Miroslav encourages them all to watch a match with English commentary to practice the football vocabulary with the help of visual aids. While Santi and Olivier shuffle out of the room, both attempting the stilted small talk they had just learned in English with one another, Lukas lingers. Miroslav might have been perfectly pleasant throughout the lesson, if a bit aloof, but Lukas still believes his time will be better spent elsewhere. Slowly, he folds his papers, stuffing them into his notebook before chucking it into his backpack. He stands, moving to lean against the table beside Miroslav, casually stuffing his hands in the pockets of his track bottoms.

“ _I’m, uh,”_ Lukas begins, slipping to Polish, _“not sure if this is the best way for me to learn the language, you know?”_ The other man stops gathering his things, turning his full attention on Lukas. His face is a mask of neutrality, a patient teacher politely listening to his student. Lukas hopes to soften the blow with a rueful smile, praying Miroslav does not think his choice is a reflection on his abilities as a teacher. _“You’re great,”_ he quickly adds. _“I just, I think I’m better off jumping in.”_

_“Alright,”_ Miroslav responds with a single shoulder shrug. _“You are always welcome to join the class when you feel like it. You have the schedule for the month?”_ He continues repacking his leather messenger bag. Lukas notes how the Polish leaps from his lips, familiar and yet with a hard edge of disuse. Perhaps this was his first language, long neglected but easily understood. An old friend returned.

_“Yes.”_

_“Well, I’m also free for private tutoring if that, eh, makes you more comfortable,”_ Miroslav pauses, his grey-blue eyes flicking over Lukas’s face. The sudden urge to avoid the searching stare bubbles up in Lukas’ chest. He ignores it. _“It might be easier since we could also speak in Polish or German, whichever you prefer.”_ Miroslav shrugs again, tilting his head to the side as he gauges Lukas reaction to his suggestions. _“My contact information should be on the same email with the schedule.”_

“ _Okay, thanks, I’ll think about it_ ,” he lies. He is sure Miroslav also knows it is a lie but knows to let this one slip. The tutor nods and continues tidying up the room. Just before the door closes behind him, Lukas glances back to see Miroslav fastidiously erasing the whiteboard. His motions are precise and measured.

For the remainder of the day Lukas struggles to push the rapidly expanding list of questions about Miroslav from his mind.


	2. Chapter Two

Two days later, against his better judgement, Lukas finds himself back in the conference room, sitting opposite Miroslav.

With his fiancée and family still in Germany and his teammates busy with their own, even Per, Lukas begins to realise how lonely London can be once he steps off the pitch. He texts and video calls Monika frequently, but with the opening of a new salon she does not have many breaks in her hectic schedule. The copious amount of time alone does not suit him; he needs people, idle chatter, laughter and joking over dinner, warm smiles and familiar touches. Adding a language barrier to his newfound solitude only seems to amplify the sense of isolation. Even with the wonders of a new city, a new culture, it feels hollow having no one to share the experience.

Not to mention the pesky way questions about Miroslav keep cropping up in the periphery of his mind.

So, when Lukas shows up for the second class, Miroslav rewards him with a smile. He glances up, pausing his idle chatter with Santi. Those wide eyes pin Lukas in place, just before the look of recognition softens them. The corner of his thin lips curl. It is small and barely reaches his eyes but a tiny thrill runs up Lukas’ spine when he sees the expression. He has only known a few people so judicious with their smiles. Lukas has always felt it to be a personal challenge to uncover what exactly will elicit the response from such people and make it blossom into something more akin to his own broad grins.

The smile fades as Lukas takes his seat. He pulls out his notebook and a pen, settling in for the lesson. It is then he firsts notices the tinge of sadness that never seems to leave Miroslav’s deep-set eyes. A sorrow rims the black irises, slowly melting into the quiet resignation of grey-blue. Lost. Or, perhaps, loss. He watches the emotion flicker, disappearing in brief flashes when Miroslav becomes enthralled in teaching. A glimpse of the passion running deep beneath the still waters of his quiet demeanour.

Just as Miroslav promised, they review each of the football terms first thing. Lukas finds himself surprised with how many he accurately recalls. Afterwards, Miroslav passes out a homemade workbook to each of the men. Flipping through at random, Lukas spots the various language puzzles, word banks, and sentence jumbles all catered to professional footballers and those new to the more mundane nuances of English culture. When he sees that all the examples feature Arsenal rather than a generic club name, Lukas begins to suspect that Miroslav, himself, wrote the workbook. The idea is oddly endearing. His touch becomes more measured, smoothing over the edges, taking care not to wrinkle or tear the pages.

Miroslav gives them a quick rundown of the outline of the text and how they will use it in conjunction with their upcoming lessons. They move on to simple grammar and sentence structure, featuring the same vocabulary while focusing on conjugating a few important action verbs. Miroslav dedicates an hour of the lesson to explaining the imperative mood and present tense conjugation of each verb. It is a lot of information, but Miroslav remains patient and understanding of the difficulties different language backgrounds produce when learning English. Before the end of the lesson, Miroslav quizzes them on the football vocabulary one last time. They all do much better the second time around. Miroslav gives them a few pages of homework from their new workbook before dismissing them for the day.

While gathering his things, Lukas tries to piece together a couple different little face-saving lies about his return. He shoulders his bag and shuffles toward Miroslav, a half formed excuse on the tip of his tongue. Before he has the chance to mutter something about his agent or growing up bilingual, a gentle hand on his forearm stops him.

“I’m glad you came back.”

Those wide, sorrowful eyes stare at him, earnest and unassuming.

‘Well,” Lukas fumbles for a response, running his thumb along the rough drawstring of his backpack. The hand rests lightly on his arm for a moment longer before casually slipping back into Miroslav’s pocket. “ _I couldn’t leave you alone to deal with those two idiots_ ,” Lukas says quickly in Polish, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the pair laughing over an English pun on one of the worksheets. “That is cruel,” he tries to mimic the deadpan delivery Miroslav seems to prefer. Something in the teacher’s expression shifts, a slight twitch of an eyebrow.

“ _If I can handle twenty thirteen year olds, I can handle them_ ,” Miroslav counters with a shrug and the same cool tones. For a brief moment Lukas imagines Miroslav teaching a rowdy group of North London youths the nuances of the German language, a pack of preteens who would never fully appreciate his dry sense of humour. “But,” he licks his lips, a flick of pink tongue and a familiar glint, “you’re help is greatly appreciated.”

A broad smile breaks out over Lukas’ face.

“See you next week.” Lukas turns to leave but spots Olivier and Santi still seated while chatting away. “Hey, hey, hey,” Lukas chides his teammates, shooing them with overdramatic waves of his arms, “come on, you two. Miro wants to go home.” He ushers them out the door. “No more babysitten.” He tosses a grin over his shoulder in time to catch Miroslav rolling his eyes, an amused smile fading on his lips.  

 

Between lessons, Lukas catches himself vaguely wondering what his instructor does when not teaching. A thousand and one unanswered questions slowly begin to clutter his mind. Does he live nearby, where does he shop, is he married or single, why did he move to England, why does he guards his emotions, where was he was born, why does Lukas think about him so often, why does he know so many languages, does he think about Lukas, does he prefer coffee or tea or neither, why are his eyes so sad, what does it take to draw out a true smile, what would it even look like?

More often than not, the man seems to invade Lukas’ idle thoughts, replacing the usual fantasies about scoring goals, winning titles and all the different positions he wants to try out with his fiancée when he goes home for a long weekend. He spends most of his down time forging new friendships, going out with a few of his teammates for dinner, meeting their girlfriends or wives and children. He spends more time with Per, playing video games and joking around. They become closer, but Per has Ulrike and a little toddler to take care of on his days off. The distractions only works for a short time before Lukas has to go back to an empty flat and the strange, unbidden musings about his English tutor float to the surface of his consciousness.

The only thing that seems to hold his focus completely is football. Though, if Lukas is honest, that has always been the case. As soon as he steps onto the pitch or the training grounds, there are no other thoughts.  

 

After almost two weeks of tutorials, Lukas realises he can spend an entire lesson simply staring at Miroslav’s hands.

The odd revelation comes at the start of tutorial on a Thursday afternoon in late August. It happens when Miroslav slides back his corrected workbook, all gentle pressure, the well-kept curve of blunt nails and long, narrow fingers. On the surface they seem similar to his own, perhaps a little larger, graceful in ways that make his own hands feel dull and brutish. The sight entrances him. Nodding along to the rise and fall of Miroslav’s voice, Lukas only half listens to the lesson, responding at the appropriate intervals along with his teammates.

He studies the strong bones of Miroslav’s knuckles creating peaks and valleys between each, the delicate veins shifting beneath pale skin, the knobby joints, the jut of his broad wrist. Lukas notices the slight bend of each digit, more pronounced in the middle and ring, when he relaxes into the rhythm of teaching. The hollow below his thumb, fading and redefining itself with each movement, becomes a focal point of his fascination. He wonders if the skin is softer there than the slight calluses he catches sight of on his tutor’s palm. An unusual elegance engrained in every movement despite the hard edge of self-consciousness that plagues Miroslav until he settles into the lesson. His gestures become less restricted, less rigid, more frequent, a fluid melody.

It is easy to imagine Miroslav was often urged to learn how to play the piano as a child.

Lukas loses all pretence when Miroslav starts scrawling on the whiteboard. Every muscle in his body loosens with the gentle strokes of each sloping letter, a slight tingling spreading from the crown of his head to his fingertips.

“Lukas?”

“Hmm?” Lukas hums, pulling his eyes away from Miroslav’s hand wrapped around a dry erase marker.

“Your example?”

“Oh, ja…” 

 

That night, when Lukas jerks off before going to bed, the image of a distinctly familiar pair of large, capable hands wrapping around his cock clouds the periphery of his mind. Slow deliberate caresses from long, deft fingers. He brushes it off easily, quickly calling on the memory of smaller, softer hands of his fiancée.

He falls asleep with an itch under his skin. 

 

That Sunday he scores his first goal in the Premiership.

  

A week later, after a resounding win over Southampton, Lukas wakes up to his empty flat and finds it oddly unbearable. Despite the ambient sounds of London traffic, leisurely and lulling on a Sunday morning, the quiet presses in on him from all sides. Still groggy and half asleep, he fishes his mobile out from under a pillow. He reads through a rambling text from his fiancée about cancelling their Skype date that afternoon, replying with a few emoticons but not much more thought, before idly scrolling through his contacts. A few names roll by on the screen, all belonging to people back in Cologne or Munich, or his new teammates surely busy spending the day with their wife or kids or girlfriend, until he lands on Miroslav.

Mysterious Miroslav.

He stares at the name for a solid minute, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. The black letters stare back intently. Eventually, he scrolls past to Monika, pauses, then back to Miroslav. All the questions he has tried to ignore come rushing to the fore. With a groan, Lukas sits up, leaning back against the wooden headboard, still staring at his tutor’s name. Impulse takes over and he selects the text option. It takes him nearly three minutes to compose an appropriately casual invitation for coffee in English. He makes sure to check his workbook once before hitting send.

Miroslav texts back straightaway.

They agree to meet up that afternoon at a café in Islington. Lukas rolls out of bed, stripping down to his skin as he heads for the shower. For the first time since moving to London he finds himself thankful he lives alone; otherwise he would have to admit to the rather obvious spring in his step.


End file.
